Old Blood
by RapiDe
Summary: Pay your welcomes to those "new" in town...


Legal disclaimers: Joss Whedon et all own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, all associated characters and spin-offs associated with this show, such as the show Angel, including all original plots, stories and similar mentioned here unless otherwise specified and anything directly linked with either show. I lay no claim to any of these things, I'm merely borrowing from and of them to create a fictional story based on the world and characters that exist in the Buffy universe. All original characters are copyright Rhys D, however, so ask if you want to borrow them. On that note, please don't sue me anyone who reads this, I'm just a poor individual with nothing to pay you, honest. This story is just for fun in any case.

Disclaimers: This story is a possible opener to a storyline crossing from "Buffy" to "Angel", I may continue it if I get feedback. This story is set during Season Four of Buffy, at the same time, as I'm sure you're aware, as Season One of Angel. This being Angel, nothing too graphic will occur as far as violence and unpleasantness, but it should be pointed out that Angelus makes an appearance in flashback segments. Also, while there are no sex scenes, there will be, for lack of a better term, some bodice-ripping, shirt-tearing moments in this story. I would rate this as being between about a "12" due to certain segments content, so if you don't wish to read anything akin to what you see on the Angel show read no further. If you do, you were warned, so be advised constructive criticism is appreciated while flames, insults, obscenities and death threats will be ignored and deleted.

**Past Imperfect**

_**Los Angeles, the USA, 2000**_

The City of Angels, where the last thing you will ever meet is a real one and where monsters find a home. Anything is possible here, it is not a matter of if, but when, no matter what anyone tells you. This is a place where dimensions cross, where worlds collide, where reality slips. Demon Princesses pleasure those who will it in sight while the blood of the unwary is drained by those out of sight and out of mind, monsters roaming the night while Police aid them and harm them in equal measure. Take anything for granted here and its the last thing you'll ever do, even the day isn't safe, no matter what they tell you. What, you thought those who swore to Serve and to Protect meant it? In the same way that those who told you only the Evil go to Hell did when you were young? Silly, silly, nothing is ever that simple, black and white and shades of grey are all in the mind, reality is more fluid than blood and the closest thing to God that there truly is has a sense of humour you will never appreciate.

Take, as an example, the Techno-Gothic dance club the _Odyssey_, a lost place hidden deep in down-town LA you have to be lost to find before you can be found again. Its what's known as an underground lair, that is to say it is unofficial, illegal in the extreme and completely unknown because it never sees the light of day. No one knows where to find it but everyone goes there, and they do it because _anything_ goes there, anything at _all_.

You go past a solid steel door with six separate locks and bolts, pass down a stairway unused for fifty years and open a door on the dance. Flashing lights of every colour and some others surround both the floor and the dance, crashing music which prevents you from thinking let alone hearing bombarding the complex like the Wails of the Damned crawling up and out of Hell, set to a heavy-metal beat of such power that it tries to drag you back down again. Faces are glimpsed in neon flashes of brief white lights, forms are felt rather than seen, a crush of bodies in too small a space the size of a large warehouse push the heat up well above the sane while the insane are abandoned to their own.

A bar lines one entire wall, but no one uses it, it uses them. It has what one wants whatever it is or was and plenty is always to be had. Teenage mortals on roller-skates whip around and about, drinks in hand food in the other, other things at times, catering to every taste and being which may wish for them. Anything goes, no rooms less privacy, nobody cares, least of all those up against the wall, no matter how many or what.

In the corner, a Vampire woman with luminous green hair sinks her fangs into the throat of a skater, a girl of seventeen, even while their hips grind together, the Vampires hands down the skirt up the T-shirt on the breasts of her "Companion". Blood stains her T-shirt, she grunts, groans, screams in agony, in ecstasy, pulls her companion in closer and kisses her with passion even as her heart slows. The floor, a mortal man wearing nothing but a loincloth, bleeding knife-cuts all about and over his body spilling on the floor, spiked black-leather loincloth his only garb, ruts with a red-skinned white-haired Succubus as though they are the last thing in the world, the sheer force snapping his bones. He doesn't know, he never cares. On the dance a group calling themselves Hells Harpies hold throne in the center, six by six twelve in all of every race and kind you can imagine. Its been said that anything goes, hedonism is nature here. These are creatures of instinct whose lives are centered on experiences which define them, they say there are no limits. No one near them disagrees with them, because of the very simple fact that they are what they say. Nor does anyone mind, just because they also _act_ on what they say.

Blood on the dance floor, lights in the sky, freedom in all its glorious forms-who needs it? Anarchists would say you have achieved the true state of intended human nature, but then isn't it always easier to destroy than to create? Demons would say that for the Herd to have anything beyond Pack structure for themselves is an obscenity in any case, but then even true animals have their hierarchies, their rules and their laws.

Humans would say that true freedom is only truly the right and the ability to do whatever you want, to think whatever you want, to say whatever you want and not be harmed in any way for it. This is a lie, but none will ever know it. Only the truly insane are truly free because in truth there is nothing left to them to stop them no matter what, who or why.

Life is life, however, and, even in this world of sides and angles and peepshows all about, there are exceptions to every rule. As an example of fact over fiction, look at this one, as if, once seen, one could tear oneself away. There is no space on the dance, yet about this one no one is near. A space is consciously held about her as though all are minded to not be about this dark beauty of a specter, yet not a one of them ever could or would tell you why. Why? What do you say to the night when it comes a calling? Like Death, you say nothing at all, you merely make your peace and move to wherever you be going next.

Red-gold hair, braided into numerous thin lengths, falls down and about her back, shoulders and chest to below her waist like fresh-lit fire itself, flaring in the darkness like an inferno in the night. Jade-green eyes so clear, intense and powerful that to meet them is to look into the Soul of Eternity are set perfectly apart in a face the beauty of which is an improvement on perfection itself. The same is true of a six-foot form that is the definition of a fantasy given form, mans worst nightmare in the form of his sweetest dream. Barely concealed under a wraparound black-leather top that covers half of full breasts and less of the back, deep dark cleavage on display, sheer skin-tight black leather trousers and boots that perfectly display the perfect body, a toned form that is forged of sheer and simple deepest desire walks unhindered among all. Full red lips that beg for the touch of others seem to pout at all, below fine eyes surrounded by dark-red paint in an "X" shape spread over both eyes. It is shaded about lightly to black in a way that makes her gaze mesmerizing rather than merely both entrancing and hypnotic.

All who see this one would declare her perfection crafted of perfection modeled on perfection created by a greater power. They would be wrong, what she was was a mixture of the best and worst any world had to offer given form and name, a name that made clear her very nature, _Sinceera_. This is one who knows the truth of freedom, its prices and its promises. This is a woman who has both tasted and denied the Ultimate and come away both the better and the worse. This is a woman to whom Eternity means both everything and nothing at all, and this is a woman who knows it.

Its been said that those who know what they truly don't know about themselves and the world are the truly wise, its been said that one cannot know everything and continue to be since life no longer holds any meaning at all. Right and wrong, good and bad, Redemption and Damnation, who's to tell and who's to say? Its also been said that its a strange world. It is, and, as this one woman would tell you, the best thing that you could ever do would be to make sure that it stays that way. Never believe that someone is telling you the truth because it is easier than lying, reality and imagination are not so different, and a lie is not always wrong. Only one thing should always be remembered: never take anything for granted, because nothing is ever that simple, ever.

For another thing, never take anyone for granted, no matter who they are nor what they seem to be. Humans, Demons, Monsters with no names or descriptions one could ever understand, none of them are who or what they would be, nor even what they say. The Succubus doesn't care about the pain or pleasure of the man who kills himself on her, no, but what does that last, brief caress of fingertips across soft hair, sweaty hot skin and rough lips just before he dies from her mean? The green-haired Vampire woman slows her near-frenzied feed before the teenage companion in her arms heart fails at the last, shifting back and a little away to see the final light fade from the eyes, her Demons face dropping a soft kiss of passion on cooling lips before heat flees them forever.

Hells Harpies won't talk or tell, but why should they, they ask, when they are what and who they are? After all, experience defines knowledge defines life defines pain defines pleasure, so to take the good with the bad is only natural, no? Or, at least, that is what they would say if asked about that Orphanage they quietly arranged for the lost in downtown Manhattan, but they don't talk about that.

Her?

Don't ask what you don't want to know.

Trust me.

_**Prague, Czechoslovakia, 1895**_

The streets of Prague, the capital city of Czechoslovakia, were darkened with not just the shadows of fallen night, concealed moon and stars hidden by dark clouds not so far above, but by the weight of untold secrets. Dark deeds committed in a darker name, those who walked the night over the day, curs who fought and killed for the most meager of scraps, places where blood was spilled unheard and untold. Old, tall buildings of weathered timbers and hard gray stone stood all about all along every road, growing shorter and more wooden, worse kept, the further one went from the cities center. The only light about was the dim illumination provided by gas-lit lamps set in closed glass atop tall steel poles, light that failed utterly to brighten more than the roads rough cobbles or the few passing carriages. Fog covered the ground and filled the air, dull, thick, gray and damper, in its way, than rain or snow, and it was rare disturbed by any living thing this night.

At this hour, mere minutes gone the old witching hour, few were about, and even fewer moved about, only those with urgent business even being minded to dare. Not one would ever admit it, but all knew that in weather and places like this, more often than not, some soul would be found in the morning dead of fright or worse, marks on the neck, arms, legs or chest that one did not dare consider. Few knew what it was, fewer still dared even attempt to mark it, most of those that did survived not beyond the next night, those that did were never the same.

A rumble sounded, a carriage riding out of the murk and dark pulled by two brown horses, a carriage for passengers of wealth, lined with shined bronze and silver, painted the black of the dark side of the moon. A single driver sat atop it, tall and thin, wearing a heavy overcoat, tall hat and scarf around his face of the same color as the carriage, guiding the carriage on its way even as he tried to stay warm and dry in the miserable weather. He had a wife and two young children waiting him once he returned home, however, so, with the purse he would earn for his services this day hanging in his minds eye, he found himself looking forwards to this days end even as he found new strength to carry on. However, muffled as his ears were by both his scarf and the steady thump of the horse's hooves on stone, he could not fail to miss the sounds of loud calls being made, calls to him. He looked up and around, searching for the source, and then he saw them.

A tall man, dressed in expensive finery, pale shirt, dark trousers, jacket and boots. He was well built and powerful in frame, his long black hair tied back from his head at the nape of his neck falling to just above his shoulders with an oiled smoothness. Broad shoulders, dark brown eyes and a smooth face like an angels would have marked him out in a crowd, whereas he was marked out in the gloom by the streetlight he was standing under. Next to him stood a woman, a little shorter than the powerful man's frame, with flaming red hair and emerald-green eyes, long legs, a slender form and a magnificent figure. The thought entered the drivers mind before he could stop it, but he dismissed it easily. He loved his wife and children, he would not betray them for no more than the charms of some rich slut.

The woman was dressed in elegant finery also, golden earrings in her ears, a silver necklace around her throat, a dress that was almost golden in color that served to bring out the effect of her pale skin, the same as the man's in fact. Her face was smooth and unlined, and, at a guess, he would have placed her in her mid-twenties at most. That made her and the man the same age or very close, but, if he retained the use of his senses, they were not brother and sister, which left only one other possibility given their evident riches. Rich whelps out enjoying not only their parent's money but each other's company, and possibly others. It was hardly a secret that such things went on, but the driver, forty years old and well aware of the fact, still found it hard to believe that all such people could seemingly find to do with their lives was sleep, eat, drink, rut and live life to extremes of excess before they were married off by their parents. Still, he was only the son of a man so poor he had lived in a ditch and survived off scraps tossed to him by passers by added to river water. He'd only spent forty years fighting his way through life to find some minor security for his wife and children to retain when he was dead and gone, spending the last ten of those years raising first one, then two children with his beloved, getting by only by shedding almost all that was left of his pride and dignity. What did he know, after all?

"Ho there the coach!" called out the man, his voice deep and powerful, although, strangely enough, the driver was sure that the mans voice was almost a growl as he spoke-except it wasn't. He suddenly found himself feeling uneasy, for a reason that he had no way of easily understanding, but he pushed it aside with effort. Most like his innate distrust of all nobility, all worthless money-dressed fools who had no regard for life, limb or property unless it suited them in his experience, he reasoned. There was a slight rustle behind him as the dark-black curtains that covered the coach's windows were pushed aside, and his master's voice called out to him. "Gerald, I thought that I heard a voice. Is there someone out there in this damned fog who dare presume to ask me for help?" asked Sir Godfrey Du Marche, a nobleman who had inherited his title, his lands and his money from his father without ever doing a single real job in his life. His father, whom Gerald had served before him for seven great years, had been a man of true quality, who had rewarded loyalty and punished disloyalty in equal measure, and who had earned his position in life by applying those same values.

"Nothing is free in this world, Gerald, nothing" the aged Lord had once told him, not long before his death of a failed liver thanks to too much indulgence when he was young, "You live from moment to moment, hour to hour, day to day, month to month, year to year, and, eventually, decade to decade. Everything that you have you will have fought for, everything that you have lost you will have fought to keep, everything that you have never had you will lust over to your dying day. If something isn't worth fighting for it isn't worth having. I am eighty-three years old, and I know these things. Your still young, you don't know what I mean yet, but give it ten years and you'll learn! You'll learn!" the old Lord had said. Making a conscious effort not to grind his teeth at the memory of the old Lord, who was ten times the man his son was and ever would be on his death bed alone, he shifted around to look at his Lord as he pulled the horses to a slow walk. Sir Godfrey Du Marche was no young man himself, he had a long, drooping black moustache, black hair with gray strands appearing in it that he had dyed regularly and soft, almost sodden dark-brown eyes. He was wearing a pitch-black tunic and trousers, white shirt and black bow tie, a top hat that had been atop his head now mercifully being no longer present.

He was a short man, barely five foot six inches tall, his muscles were flab, his belly grossly apparent as it swung over his belt, his cheeks and nose being puffy and red as a result of great wealth being wasted on greater amounts of food and drink. He was only just short of fifty years yet looked about seventy, as well as looking as though he was slowly dying at the same time, which he was. Certainly, no one could consume the quantities that he did and live that long even if they were in their prime, which he was not, even though he had started his habits long before then.

"There are two people at the side of the road, milord, they look to be noble blood to me, a young man and woman, both of fine looks. They are calling us over, do you wish me to come up to them?" replied Gerald, his voice rough, his accent strong. He resisted the temptation to rip his Lords whiskers off of his face and ram them down his throat with considerable effort of will. _This _was the man that he had to bow to and obey the will of for the rest of his life? It made one long for the simplicity of the ditch, no matter what one might say, but he would never, _never_, allow harm to come to his wife and children, no matter the cost to himself.

"Hmm, noble blood you say? Well, then, of course pull over and aid them, the poor pair must be lost!" declared his Lord, his voice like a brassy foghorn, a look in his eyes that Gerald knew well. It was hardly a secret, amongst the household at least, that both boys and girls were to their Lords obscene tastes, especially when he had had something to drink, which he had tonight. Gerald considered the expression his Lord would wear if he were to kick off the top of his Lords fat head and leave him in the dirt for scavengers to eat his living brain, but he dismissed the idea with considerable effort, and the aid of his family. No matter what the price, none of his sons and daughters would ever have to live through what he had and know what he did, let alone do what he did. That thought was what always held him back from smashing his Lord into a bloody pulp as the fat fool richly deserved.

What had caused his current, most recent companion to seek his company tonight was beyond Gerald's worst nightmares, just as all of the others had been. Worst of all, though, had been those that had never left, ever, and had to be dealt with by him and the staff. Cold, rubbery skin, wide, horror-struck eyes, cuts, scrapes and bruises obvious all over them, particularly the throat in most cases. He'd made the mistake of looking into one's eyes once, he simply never would forget the sight...

He pulled over the coach at the side of the road next to the two noble youngsters, drew the horses to a stop and looked down at the two of them. The man disturbed him, more than a little, but he couldn't quite understand why. The woman was the same, but less so, which seemed somehow odd. At best, he could only have said that the man seemed shrouded in a kind of darkness that seemed far more suited to predators of the night, such as bats and wolves... "M'Lord and Lady, begging your pardon, but, should you be wanting a carriage to your homes, m'Lord has said that you may share his. If other your call be for, mayhap we can help?" asked Gerald, speaking the Czechoslovak tongue automatically, as the man had. After all, living here dressed as they were, what else might they be but blue-blooded nobles of the land? Certainly, the replies of the two did nothing to persuade him otherwise.

"Thank you, good sir, we were indeed hoping that we could borrow a ride in your masters fine carriage at this hour" replied the woman, her voice like silk on skin, practically causing every hair on his body to stand on end. His throat went dry, almost causing him to loose the power of speech momentarily, but he recovered quickly, and coughed to hide his inconvenience. He nodded, "Thank you ma'am, and be welcome" he replied, then waited for them to board as the man opened the door, helping the woman aboard before climbing aboard himself and closing the door behind him. Once they were aboard, he pulled on the reins once more, and the horses moved off at a walk that slowly accelerated to a trot. His Lord would find out where the two lived and so tell him where to go in due course, as protocol demanded, since he was not allowed to engage nobles in talk, only reply if spoken to. If, that was, his Lord cared to hear the answers at all that night, given the two's youth, health and good looks...

Even as they stepped inside the carriage and seated themselves, the black-haired, brown-eyed young man closing the door behind him, Sir Godfrey Du Marche began to look keenly at them both, woman and man, getting a sultry smile in return from the woman and a grin from the man as Sir Godfrey's eyes wandered. However, both immediately noticed the second figure already in the carriage when they entered, a woman wearing a long raven-black dress, shoes and gloves that covered her from head to foot. Her physique made clear that she was most definitely a woman, slender, curvaceous figure obvious to the eye and firm to the touch as evidenced by the way her hourglass figure pressed against her silken dress. A long black veil and hood of the same color momentarily made them wonder whether or not the woman was either of some strange eastern religion or had facial scars, but she quickly showed them the truth.

Upon seeing the young woman, the darkly dressed woman's brilliantly clear, intense jade-green eyes narrowed like the moon being partially obscured by an eclipse. In two quick movements she threw off her hood, revealing long, curling red-gold hair that spilled out and down in a silken wave to just below her waist, and pulled off her veil, revealing a face slightly older than the other woman's and of such fine beauty that it was almost unearthly, seemingly carved rather than born. Full red lips, fine bones and silken-smooth skin it was impossible to imagine the feel of unless your finger brushed it became obvious. The younger woman's face froze in shock as the older one smirked. "Hello again, Darla" said the older woman, her voice like ice-cold water on a hot summers day, like the warmth of the sun on a cold winters day, like life to the dying, like pleasure given form, touch and taste.

Darla snapped out of her shock very quickly, her face shifting to a monsters guise, ridges rising, bones shifting, muscles and sinews contorting, Vampiric fangs instantly becoming apparent. Sir Godfrey went white as a sheet, his jaw dropping, even as he very nearly stopped breathing for the last time. Darla roared in fury like the Demon she was, lunging straight at the seemingly unperturbed other woman like a wild animal...

_**LA, the USA, 2000**_

Memories flit across the minds eye like shooting stars in the night, there a moment gone the next. They burn briefly in the darkness, flaring like a dying mans hand thrusting up into the light one last time, reaching desperately for life, only to fall back at the end, defeated, no way to go on as all strength fails at the last. However, even a moments grasp of the light is worth a day of the darkness, and, as she begins to move faster and faster to the beat, body twisting, turning, gyrating around and about as though there is nothing and no-one there to worry about but the shadows that lie all about her mind, she easily lets her perceptions be clouded once more. Her body doesn't need her mind to function, and, truth be told, she came here to relax anyway...

_**Paris, France, 1933**_

Night's darkness and a fog that masks the bright streetlights inside their glass cases cover the sky and the land like the inside of a coffins wooden hide. A silver moon swings past slowly overhead, but its sharp light fails to pierce dark clouds and dense fog that wallows like a beached Whale about the old city, almost as though something hides deep below the night, not wanting to be seen. Chance would be a fine thing, if one wishes to be found there is no escape, if one hides one is already dead.

The reasons are a blond and black haired pair, a man and a woman who lark and laugh about as though they have no worries in the world to be known of. The man is three inches short of a six-foot build, slim and athletic, with hard muscles that ripple as he moves. He has ice-blue eyes and blond hair that is slicked down atop his head, sharply handsome features illuminating cold, bright eyes. A white silk shirt hangs about his otherwise bare chest, almost falling from his shoulders, raven-dark leggings and black-leather boots covering his legs and feet. He is singing, badly, his strong English accent appallingly obvious, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey so strong that it would burn the guts of a mortal man hangs from his left hand, held in a grip that suggests he holds his redemption and damnation close yet long away. He was once called William the Bloody, now he is known, rather more simply, as Spike-"Railroad" Spike, as his few friends call him when he's drunk himself unconscious so he won't kill them.

His companion is a woman two inches shorter and with the build of a woman three years older than Spikes own evident twenty-five, but she is the one of them who draws the eye. Loose black hair falls to her waist like a silk curtain, dark-brown eyes glitter with shards of a sharp mind that spin, clatter off each other and cut more deeply all of the time. Her build is a woman's, slim and elegant like a dancers, a skill she learnt long ago and loves to practice with her Spike, a skill he loves to indulge. Long-limbed, graceful, elegant and beautiful in a way that is often literally stunning to behold, this is a woman who carries her dark majesty like a cloak, leaving what is left of her sanity behind her trailing like a sparkling blanket of glass shards. A curved body her lover kills for, full red lips that gleam in the night, a dark-black skirt, dark-blue shirt and shoes so dark that they seem to absorb the light itself all combine with the rest of her to make this one a Goddess. At least, that is what Spike would say. The woman herself, known to all as Drusilla, the insane one whose eyes cut you inside just because of her existence should you meet her, is one who rarely has opinions about anything. What she has are ideas, what she calls them are "Those pretty things which make me do other things". Besides, she doesn't need to persuade anyone of these facts, Spike just kills them for her.

For the past few minutes of the hour, Spike had been coming up with a way to attract the right kind of attention. Burst into a Tavern and simply butcher everyone? Messy, brutal, fun, but not what he had in mind. Rape some female passer-by who was still young enough to scream loudly enough to draw attention in the fog? Might work, but he only did that in front of Dru on special occasions, and there was very little reason for him to make this one now. Find some young French toff and beat the living daylights out of him, before slitting his throat and gutting him like a fish while he was still alive using his own ribs? Worth a shot, but no Frenchie lad had passed by recently enough to put the theory into practice. This had annoyed Spike, and, as Dru was well aware, he didn't like being annoyed, so he'd settled for doing something vicious, violent and pointless instead, at least until something better came along.

Spike picked up the big fragment of cobblestone one-handed, as though it weighed no more than a pebble, even though no human man could have easily shifted it. He cocked his arm, took aim and flung the stone hard and fast, a Vampires eyesight guiding his throw. The throw was, of course, true, and the street-light literally exploded, glass case shattering, dim electric light exploding with a screech and a hiss, metal casing about all bending weirdly as the frames remains almost seemed to swallow up the stone, leaving it in a shape that would have baffled any artist. Drusilla giggled with glee, clapping her hands as a child's smile split her smooth face, shards inside her eyes spinning more and more madly as what was left of her sanity, rarely evident even at the best of times, flittered away silently once more.

"Oh, Spike" she whimpered, English accent obvious, watching with a glee that would have disturbed anyone but Spike as the shattered glass slowly span its way down to the ground. "For me?" she asked hopefully, soft doe eyes glancing at the blue ones of the blond Vampire. His smile was literally Demonic for a moment, then he answered her with a kiss of such smoldering passion that he would have stopped her heart if it hadn't stopped beating more than seventy years ago forever. "Of course, luv" he replied, his own English accent even more pronounced than hers. "Just like one of those bloody Gendarmes will be, if I can ever get the bastards to come find us" he continued, with a growl of frustration.

"Oh, my Spike, you do worry so much. You don't worry, now, they'll come...?" replied Drusilla, her words trailing off as though something had distracted her. Her head shifted so that she could look up, and a smile of something approaching true happiness appeared on the insane Vampire's face, an expression Spike had rarely seen on her face outside of lovemaking or a particularly exquisite form of torture. For a moment, though, used as he was to her totally unpredictable and often-violent mood swings, the expression on her face, although he'd never admit it, actually scared him.

That was when he felt it, air rushing past him, as though something had flown past right overhead, very close, something one Hell of a lot bigger than any bird he'd ever heard of or seen. All of his senses were so sharpened by his Demon half that it was beyond human ability to understand, let alone comprehend. His ears could have caught the faintest click of a birds claws on rough stone half a city away. He could have told by touch alone whether someone was male or female, how old they were to the year and whether or not they'd ever been fed on before. On a clear night he could have seen miles across the land that called itself France and told someone every detail of a particular bird high in the night sky, including the design of every one of its feathers.

However, in this case, only one sense was of any use to him. Taste, not scent, taste, the ability to taste the sweat of the living in the air, the ability to touch the air with his tongue and know, without his eyes, just who and what was standing before him. His tastes suddenly said Vampire, but his mind said something else, _Demon_. Small problem, one couldn't be both at the same time, right? At least, according to everything he knew about Occult Lore. After all, Vampires were Demons incarnate in dead human bodies without those troublesome Souls, right? Whereas Demons were a whole new, very nasty, breed that had rightly been forced into Hell in a great war whole millenniums ago. Vicious, ferocious, lethal, almost unkillable _and_ unstoppable monsters that existed to create carnage and destruction on a scale that would have made him proud? Right? Then _how_...?

The mists parted in front of him like curtains twitched aside to signal the start of a play, and what he saw made his jaw drop. Curling red-gold hair that fell to below the waist, perfect looks, with full ruby-red lips and brilliant jade-green eyes so clear and intense that he could feel rather than see the power scarcely contained behind them. If Drusilla was a dark beauty, this woman was simply majestic, beauty and power given form, incarnate perfection. Added to all of this, though, only one thing kept him from literally rushing towards the woman like a dog desperate for a bone from its master. A darkness that swirled and shaped itself about her, within and without, curling tendrils wrapping over and around her encasing a Soul that was so bright and strong within her, so pure, that it defied him to even understand just what he was sensing. He wasn't even sure that he wanted to know, and some part of him was very glad of the fact that his feet most certainly agreed with that as he found himself rooted to the spot.

She was wearing a long cloak that fell from her throat to her feet, encasing her completely as it billowed in the wind, a ruby-red dress and shoes momentarily becoming evident as it shifted-it took him a moment to recall that there was so little wind that even his enhanced senses could barely detect it. That was when she threw back her head and laughed, long and loud, a sound that made the knees quake, a sultry, full throaty laugh that few women he'd ever met allowed themselves. Then she grinned, fangs very evident over her teeth despite her face remaining normal otherwise. Drusilla literally leapt for joy, then sprinted forwards and jumped into the six-foot woman's arms, which held her easily, both of Drusilla's arms wrapping around the red-haired woman with a force that would have broken Spikes ribs. The tall woman simply didn't notice, placing a cheek against Drusilla's forehead even as a hand slowly caressed the smaller woman's black hair.

"My precious" mumbled Drusilla, her voice muffled by the fact that she had literally flattened herself as much as she could against the taller woman's body while in her arms, her face being crushed into the woman's bosom. "My sweet one, my Drusilla, it has been a time" replied the woman, her voice even worse than her laugh, smoky and almost molten with heat to the ears. It easily made all of the short hairs on Spikes body stand on end as though he'd received a massive electric shock while having the greatest orgasm of his life, ever. He abruptly realized that his mouth was hanging open and closed it, still at a complete loss for words, then his eyes widened to such an extent he risked his sight.

The woman's "cloak" abruptly fell back from her, rising up and behind her to reveal itself as a pair of bat-like wings. The tough fabric around the frames of the wings was the color of blood in Hell, dark ruby-red mixed with red-gold streaks as bright as a burning fire colored by touches of the deepest darkness. The wings themselves were organic in nature, but he could tell little more than the fact that the frames were of a tough material so dark and dull that they tested even his eyesight to perceive in the darkness. He couldn't help but notice the curving sharp edges, however, and he strongly suspected that the wings functioned extremely well as weapons if the woman was of a mind to use them as such…

The wings folded back into themselves as though closing into a space that he couldn't perceive because it didn't exist in the world he did, then they were drawn into her shoulders, and were gone. He blinked, shook his head, and abruptly realized that the woman and his lover were both snapping at each other with deliberate viciousness, a form of foreplay where Vampires were concerned since the taking of blood meant as much as if not more than sex to most of them. It was an old habit, Angelus had taught him it and he and Drusilla practiced on each other, enjoying it immensely every time. He'd known that there had been men before him for Drusilla, even a couple of women-why not-but there had been none since him, no-one at all, and he'd liked it that way, always would. To be perfectly honest, he wouldn't have minded, he was as happy with three or even four as two-that brought back some memories involving Darla, that woman didn't know how to stop once she started doing something, a trick Drusilla had picked up from her-because he knew, he _knew_, Drusilla would always come back to him. That was then, this was now, and this one…she was something else entirely. As he watched Drusilla's fangs make contact, fasten in the taller woman's throat and greedily begin to draw forth her blood as the woman sighed in ecstasy, he knew a moment of panic, then fury. Not jealousy, he wasn't that stupid, fury. Anger gave him back his voice, he wasn't going to loose Drusilla to some Blood-Slut, no matter who she was or what power she might wield.

"**OY**!" he exploded, his feet slamming down on cobbles as he raced forwards towards her, his face changing to Demon changing to an insanely furious monster even as he reached her in a matter of seconds, grabbing for that long red-gold hair and somehow missing. He'd intended to strangle her with that hair, then his bare hands once it had torn off, smash her skull against the cobbles, break her back, tear out her heart and eat her insides in front of her after prising open her rib-cage with her own legs if she lived that long after he'd torn them off.

What happened was that he completely failed to connect with her as she seemed to merely step out of the way, and a casual backhanded swipe that suddenly developed five five-inch long claws broke most of his ribs, shredded his upper chest terribly, massive lacerations spilling blood all over like a summer rain, and hurled him fifty foot down the road as though he weighed less than nothing. He didn't stop once he connected with the floor headfirst, either, fracturing his skull, but rolled over several times completely out of control, breaking his left arm and all of his remaining intact ribs as well as dislocating his left hip and knee. When he finally came to a stop, somehow having ended up on his back, bruises, cuts, broken and cracked bones screaming at him in utter agony, he was only just semi-conscious.

He didn't move for some moments, then, without sitting up, he reached into a trouser pocket with his intact arm, pulling out a cigar that was still in one piece. He found a match in his other pocket, lit it on the cobbles after three attempts, then lit the cigar and placed it between his lips. He took several long puffs, wincing as his broken ribs protested, then pulled away the cigar and blew smoke into the night with a sigh. "Think I know why Dru likes her now" he muttered, even as he began to work out how to get his dislocated hip and knee back into position with a broken arm he would have to set first. Not that he'd admit it, but he'd decided that maybe he would let the redhead get physical with Dru after all. He could give and take pain with the best of them, but he wasn't suicidal. More to the point, why _wouldn't_ he want Dru to know a woman who could easily have kicked them both literally all the way back to England, probably without even trying? Hell, he halfway fancied seeing if she actually could do that with some Froggy-once his injuries healed up, that was. Until then, maybe he could find some more interesting uses for that kind of physical power? After all, it was pretty obvious she could teach him some whole new meanings of the word pain...

Mohra Demons had the Blood of Eternity in their veins, that Drusilla knew, she'd studied the ancient texts when she'd had the time and did, normally, remember the important parts. It could regenerate the Mohra Demon completely unless it was killed in a certain fashion, no matter how it "Died". It could restore life to the nearly dead and, possibly, it could restore certain of the Undead to true life, Vampires and similar breeds whose bodies had not decayed or degraded at all from the moment of their death due to magical means of some nature. It was also of great use in spells and a variety of ceremonies involving magic of all kinds, but the only way to get any was to take it out of a Morha Demon. Given they were among the most formidable Demon warriors to ever exist, this was a task of similar difficulty to finding a way to taste an Ancients blood without its permission yet prevent it from killing you for the affront. In a word, impossible.

That wasn't the point, however, since, while the woman known as Sinceera was no Morha Demon, her blood was to Vampires what Ambrosia was to humans. Drinking it fired the being like a second life, made raw strength, power and energy flow through the veins like fire traveling along a trees branches, great and terrible and all consuming. But, in the few seconds that it lasted, a thrill of dreams and a taste of Eternity beckoned in the same way the unknown would always beckon the explorer of beyond. It was as though it was power tasted with blood rather than blood tasted with power, and there descriptions failed even the insane Vampires shattered mind, only experiencing it enabling any peace.

She almost cried when it was withdrawn, the wounds healing instantly in front of her eyes, but she knew what came next and came willingly as razor fangs sliced open her jugular, somehow being as gentle as a mother with her child despite the vicious nature of injury and assault. Sinceera's eyes closed in simple pleasure, arms closing more firmly about the smaller woman, and she tasted of the unique touch of darkness only the insane ever know, a freedom of thought and action that was almost unimaginable there to be had. A Queen of the lost and a part of the damned, Drusilla still held within her seeds of light, parts of the mortal woman she had once been. Every part of her was somewhere about in her blood, and all of it had a unique tang to it that was only ever to be her.

Sinceera pulled back slowly, licking her lips, then breathed in a long, full breath of the night air, catching Drusilla's slight fragrance. Sharp perfumes, a whiff of the cold earth of the grave, a stench of something like sulphur that would have told any of her true nature. Spikes scent, blood, a great deal, old and new, terror, fear, pain, barely any his, a strange deeper, sulphur-like scent with a stench of stony grave-dust, all imprinted in his hide so deeply they were a part of him now. Finally, of course, her own, good and bad, light and dark, the sweetest natural flower perfume added to the tang of a place worse than Hell that would defy description even if she was of a mind to try, a combination of blood, brimstone and a further scent that had no name. She didn't smell of the grave like the others did because she'd never died as they had. Instead, she'd found herself born this way, unique in any nature, not supposed to exist, yet here she was, the Nights own shadow.

She looked down at the hungry Drusilla, still hungry for more despite her being so full that her body could truly hold little more, and the smile that spread across her face could have illuminated the street during the day. "Dru, you know, I think that I just might be lonely. Was that blond your latest other, or can I borrow him?" asked Sinceera, with a wink...

_**LA, the USA, 2000**_

Even a club like the _Odyssey_ has its rules, truth be told, but, then, how popular would any be if they allowed simple things like violence to get in the way of pleasure? A club which caters to all comers has to deal with all who be about, man, woman, Demon, Beast, other, worse, yet still somehow see that all who be there wish there is there. This is why there are only three rules, two of which are never broken. One, no fighting, one comes here to relax, to heal, not to Slay. Two, no eating the customers on the premises, no exceptions no failures. Three, the one some ignore, Management word is End word.

Some ignore this because they can, others do because they don't care, the latter soon all come to know, intimately, why the Gargoyles that festoon the wall always smile. Of course, there are always others, those whom one does not, ever, say nay to unless one wishes. Wishes, that is, to know better of ones self in a most final fashion. She is one of those, powers who care not for others and answer to none, except maybe one. One is what one does, as any would tell one. Also, though, despite all, one is never what one wishes to be.

_**Los Angeles, the USA, 1953**_

The hotel was not a large structure. It never had been, and it never would be. Two floors high, forty small rooms, cheap, small, creaking and poor, water drips about, drains rattle, smells that nature detests waft about all as though they belong. Black-painted walls run with shades of older dark blue "fresh" paint barely conceals, floorboards creak and rot underneath a battered old carpet that was once a dull gray but is now merely dull, and rotten. The ceiling was painted the gray of the sea once upon a time, now it resembles the sea more closely than it did ever before as water spreads and dampens areas that it should not even touch. Metal stairs and wooden handrail crawl with things best not spoken of, metal rusting and decayed, wood eaten slowly but surely.

Almost anywhere else this would be a place where the dregs come to die, halfway dead and long gone in any case. Lost, abandoned, despairing and dying, hopeless and nameless, all who exist as these will one day be drawn to a place such as this. A lost, nameless land where death is a way of life and the only way left is loss of all that one may have left. Prey is the wrong word to describe this form of creature, more like food, in the loosest possible sense of the word. One has to be lost to find one's way here, and the lost never leave, never find any way again, now or ever.

All of this fails to provide any job satisfaction, just as it fails to provide good health, as the Manager could tell anyone who cared to ask him. Forty-five years old, five-two and almost the same across the bloated gut that a belt will no longer hold, flabby arms and legs exposing a soft, thick throat and puffy red face. Chestnut hair recedes from pale flesh shot through with thick purple veins, dull brown eyes barely even aware as a jam-filled donut is forced down a stuffed mouth into a bulging stomach. A chin with bristles is smeared with red jam which drips onto a shabby gray shirt soaked with old sweat under the armpits, it hasn't been washed in weeks and the smell would turn any stomach, if he noticed anymore. Black trousers sit unbuttoned about his waist, gray socks alone cover bare feet as they swing back and forth slowly but surely. He sits on an old wooden stool that barely holds his weight, and the hotel is closed, old, few windows, sweat tracing his skin adding to the stench. He couldn't have cared if the Devil himself checked in, for a down payment and a glance he's checked in those close to that old terror without a second thought.

That, however, is just what causes thin eyebrows to rise almost all of the way to the top of his head when the doors creak open, slowly but surely, despite the broken hinge he had no intention of mending, as _she _steps into the room. Red-gold hair in a long, tight ponytail down her back to just below her waist, jade-green eyes partially concealed behind a pair of slim, elegant glasses with silver frames that gleam in the dying embers of the suns light. Sensible light gray skirt that falls to her knees and suit jacket over a white shirt, black office shoes on her feet. A dark-black full-body overcoat aside, the clothes hug a figure tight that makes the watchers eyes open wide and a part of him responds that he thought had lost interest a long time ago. He cannot take his eyes off a slim waist and rounded hips added to full breasts as she walks over to him.

He should have. He's an old hand at dealing with unwanted "guests", and he learnt long ago that the first rule of survival is not know your enemy, it is know when to cut and run because its not worth a life, let alone yours. She's the definition of the point, a beauty that could distract the dead hiding a darkness that will kill the living as though it is the most natural thing in the world. If his eyes were gone, maybe he'd have had a chance, but doubts arise regardless. The Original Sin always applies, no matter age or nature, lust for the other is a constant even death cannot cure.

Stopping in front of the bar, she looks at him, sighs, raises her head and sniffs the air. An expression of distaste crosses her face, and something else, a brief flash of anger. She closes her eyes, breathes in sharply, grits her teeth, then looks at the Manager once more with something approaching a very forced smile. "I'm looking for a man, his name is Angel. I know he's here, so don't even start with maybe, perhaps, possibly and probably not or I will become annoyed and this conversation will be over. Now, where is he, and what will it take for me to see him, alone and completely undisturbed, hmm?" she asks, quietly, her voice pure and fine, like the pure waters of a mountain stream added to pure pleasure combined with the heat of sex and the draw of lust. The Manager looks at her, weighing up the possibilities, barely noticing as she places one hand on the desk, not noticing as nails almost imperceptibly extend and scratch the wooden surface of the desk. Its not much of a choice, when he weighs it all up, besides which, why wouldn't he want looks to stay around a while longer after all? Cameras are easy as Security isn't, she doesn't know that… well, no need to tell her.

"Some I.D. an' a little greenback an' you won't here from me til' mornin'. Don' like it, tha's your problem, I ain't gonna stop ya but I think he might not like bein' disturbed unless I give him the yell. Well, liddle lady?" asks the Manager, a lewd look in his eyes, a grin on his flabby face that would have made a parent nervous, a child very scared. The six-foot redhead smiles at him, this time the smile isn't forced, it's so cold that it could kill. She pulled out a card from her left coat pocket and pushed it across the table, flipping it so that he could see the name at the last.

_Wolfram & Hart_

_Associates at Law_

The Manager swallowed and stopped reading the gold-printed text set against the pale white card. He wasn't that desperate to die just yet, besides which Wolfram & Hart had an annoying tendency to take insults to Clients of theirs as personal attacks on them. They employed Demons rather than actually being such themselves, in most cases, but that just meant that if someone annoyed them they sent out those Demons they employed for a reason, and it never happened again. If this woman was here on official business for them… He stopped considering it, pulled out and handed her the correct key and smiled as best he could. "Room 17" he said, managing not to stutter somehow. She didn't smile in return, even as she took the key and began to mount the steps.

The door hadn't just been locked, it had been wedged shut, hard, so hard that it had damaged the frame, to the point that a battering ram, three strong men or a being with enhanced strength of some nature would be required to open it. She sighed, tossed the key over her shoulder and kicked the door so hard that it came completely clear of its hinges. It flew across the room, landing against the outer wall before toppling back and onto the floor with a bang of hard wood on rotting planks. There was no reaction from inside, so she walked in, carefully, her Nightside eyes instantly adapting to the darkness of the room-no lights, curtains closed-and she saw why.

He was dressed in a dull gray shirt, much torn and ruined by filth added to old bloodstains, ragged dark-blue jeans and black shoes that were evidently twenty years old or more judging by the state of disrepair they were in. The soles were, in reality, almost worn away, ragged material showing rather than covering flesh.

The man once known as Angelus was a mess. Even though he was lying on a mattress, his physical decay was obvious. His body was thin and bony, almost wasted, his muscles twitching constantly as though he no longer had full control of his body functions. His black hair was thin and greasy, limp strands falling about his head like a mop, while dull dark-brown eyes that showed real fear and atrocious pain were half-covered by his eyelids, as though it was almost too much of an effort to stay fully awake. He stank like a urinal that hadn't been cleaned in a hundred years, one that had been used by men and then animals before being buried intact just for the shock to later peoples who might find it once more. The dirt all about and over him made it clear that he hadn't moved or cleaned himself for days, maybe weeks. She caught a stronger trace of his stench and amended that to certainly weeks, her face wrinkling in disgust.

"Angelus, boy, just how in the name of Hell did it come to this?" she asked, aloud, comparing the healthy, powerful Alpha male predator she had known over fifty years ago with the dying wreck in front of her. It was an effort, males like Angelus just didn't fall apart like this in her experience... Angel twitched, shifted, raised his head and looked at her through dull eyes.

Still-sharp eyes focused, and he smiled with no trace of humor or warmth. "How sweet, it's my ex-girlfriend come to check up on me. GET OUT!" he snapped, lying back down and ignoring her otherwise. She growled, mainly in amusement. He'd rarely spoken this bluntly to her, for good reason, maybe he'd forgotten why? Or maybe not...

"Angelus, that behavior was cute when we doing what you were good at amongst soft mattresses and silken sheets, now its not. Say those words again in any fashion and I'll kill you. So, are you going to explain how you ended up in this state, Soul-Cursed or not, or am I going to have to pry open your head and find out a rather older way?" asked the woman, her arms crossed over her chest.

Angel let out a sound stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Long story, Sinceera, which, of course, you will understand far better than me. On the other hand, isn't that the whole point of your name?" he asked, his voice weak, but still deep and somehow powerful, just as she remembered.

"That obvious? Of course it is, you stupid masochistic excuse for a Bloodsucker. Now, start, or..." said Sinceera, deliberately letting her voice trail off, her tone of voice making very clear what would happen if her instruction was not obeyed. Angel knew better than most what that meant, he'd seen her work when she was annoyed and it had been…instructive, to say the least. He didn't really care any longer, though, truth be told, but, coming from the same angle, why shouldn't he tell her? It wasn't as though it would mean anything, after all...

He rolled onto his back with a grunt, shifted slightly and looked at her. Then he sighed, "Its Angel now, only Angel, and just remember, you asked for this" he said, softly, Sinceera's ears not missing anything...

_**LA, the USA, 2000**_

Angelus, part of the quartet of the damned known as the Destroyers of Europe among the other blood. It had been a while since she'd thought about _him_...almost fifty years now, truth be told, especially after he'd poured out his whole sob-story failure/excuse for not living the life that was his to burn back then. She'd sat and listened, run a hand through his hair-as poorly maintained as it had looked-and even, for some reason, let him get up and hug her, despite the risk of fleas and other, less pleasant, problems. He'd been almost thankful, and she'd hardly been able to even attempt to grasp why she'd done it, so she'd knocked him unconscious, kicked him in the ribs a few times for irritating her, then left. She hadn't seen him since, and hadn't missed him. She wasn't the type, and that was putting it mildly, sex or no sex.

Sob story slob story, that man had let what he was go for no other reason than the fact that he didn't have the will to go on with a Soul. Just because it meant he felt compassion for what he'd done over the previous hundred-forty years? Ha! She'd had a Soul since she'd been born and never lost it once, yet she was here now. If he couldn't cope with such passing difficulties, he wasn't a man whom it was worth her knowing.

On the other hand, that very thought couldn't help but bring to mind a man who had always known what he wanted and how to get it, no matter what, where, when or how...

_**Sunnydale, California, the USA, 1999 **_

_**Day Seven of the Hundred Days**_

The Mayor of Sunnydale was a lot older than he looked, even though he was no youth in reality. He looked about forty-five physically, but wasn't doing badly for a ninety-nine year-old. Auburn hair still full about his head with no traces of gray, soft chocolate-brown eyes in a face that was slightly wrinkled with age. A light-brown suit and tie, white shirt and black shoes covered an old body that was still broad and solid enough to show that he had been a powerful man in his youth. He stood five-eight tall, four inches shorter than her standing up, but he wouldn't have tried to press any "physical" advantage even if he had been the larger of the two.

Hundred Days invulnerability or not, even added to an old spell that had granted him immortality of a sort back in 1900, one did not annoy a being who could, faster than the eye could perceive, leave you in six separate pieces around a small room, neatly measured ones at that. More to the point, when one required the help of that self-same individual at a critical phase of a plan one had worked on for very nearly a whole century, you did not, ever, antagonize him just for a laugh-or her, as in this case.

Dressed all in black, T-shirt, jeans and trainers, red-gold hair tied behind her head in a loose tail, jade-green eyes almost literally glowing in the darkness of the dimly-lit office, lit only by a small electric lamp on the heavy wooden desk, the woman known as Sinceera sat easily in a chair in front of the desk. Sitting still, she was looking at the glass of red wine in her hand as though she wasn't sure what to make of it. She sniffed, breathing in the scent, licked her lips with a small pink tongue as though savoring the taste, even though not a drop had yet passed her lips, then she looked up at the Mayor with a sigh. "This was only bottled in 1900, couldn't you get any 1753 like I asked for?" she asked, her accent one very few would recognize, a wicked grin spreading across her face even as she spoke. She knew the significance of the date as well as he did, she just liked her fine wines.

"I could have, but I decided that this would be more…fitting, shall we say. Anyway, you were proposing a toast, I believe?" replied the Mayor, strong American accent obvious, raising his own glass in reply. It didn't look like blood, didn't smell like blood, it wasn't blood, but it was almost a hundred years old, which was the important point here.

She smiled, considered a moment further, then raised her glass to tap the edge against his. "Here's to success, in every sense of the word. Power is what power does, and we will both always exercise it as we see fit, may the Devil cry. Cheers" she said, then she knocked back the whole glass without a moments pause.

The Mayor followed suit, then he smiled a smile that would have made some Vampires shiver. "Nice, I like the phrasing I think. Now, you have the artifact?" he asked, leaning back against the edge of the desk.

"Are you questioning my abilities, Mr. Mayor? No, don't answer that, we both know you're not suicidal. Yes, I do, although why you want it is something you should keep to yourself" replied Sinceera. She produced a silver-shaded metal armband that fitted over the entire forearm and hand, although not the palm and the underside of the fingers, a ruby jewel that looked very strange to the eye sitting in the middle of where the palm would be placed. It hadn't been there a moment ago, and she wasn't wearing enough clothes to hide it, but the Mayor didn't ask. He knew better, and it didn't matter in any case.

"_Thank _you, usual arrangements apply, and I will keep my reasons to myself. Is there anything else, or are we done?" said the Mayor, taking the artifact, an arcane device even an immortal would find it a very bad idea to ignore under any circumstances. On the other hand, that was why he wanted it, after all. If all didn't go to plan then he had to make sure that his Faith could still do something about it-there was a commotion outside the door to his office suddenly. His Secretary raised her voice almost to a shout before being cut off by the sound of a body hitting the floor with a thud. The Mayor smiled, then hid the artifact in a pocket inside his jacket just before the door almost fell open as the young woman on the other side used considerably more force than was necessary, especially with her Slayer powers, to open it.

Faith Spencer, rogue Slayer, the so-called "Dark" Slayer who now worked for him with a smile and a ready hand on razor-sharp knife, came into the room, the look on her face pure anger. She was a beauty in the same way an uncut diamond was, all sharp, hard edges and marred surfaces, even while a brittle ugly center was concealed within, just waiting to either be shaped into something new and strong or torn apart by casual indifference. Eighteen years old, just over five and a half feet tall, chestnut hair fell in curls down and about her back and shoulders to her waist. Dark brown eyes shone in a face that melted most like chocolate in the suns rays despite concealing a dark, ugly, almost inhuman edge beneath that her mind stood on the precipice edge of. A smooth-faced beauty and voluptuous, slender form were only added to by her obvious youth, full red lips bent in almost a snarl as she strode into the room. Wearing dark-black leather jacket and trousers, black shoes and a dark-red top, her skin almost dusky in tone, the Slayer was a shadow in a dark room.

She glared at the Mayor, glanced at Sinceera-stopped, did a double take, then looked back at the Mayor, if anything even more angry than before. "Some blood-sucking slut? THIS is who your "Mystery guest" is? You've GOTTA be joking, I know a dozen women from down town who-" Faith snapped, only to be brought up short by an odd look from the Mayor. Sinceera's eyes widened, then she closed them, shook her head and began to chuckle, very audibly. The Mayor stood up and stepped behind his desk as Faith looked at her incredulously, but it only caused Sinceera to start laughing aloud. "Shut up" Faith said, slowly, quietly, in a very small voice, but Sinceera simply ignored her, laughing even harder. That did it. Faith, short-tempered and so unstable that the wrong word could set her off on a homicidal frenzy at the best of times, snapped. What happened next was over in seconds, but it would stay with the rogue Slayer for the rest of her life.

Faith went for Sinceera's throat with her bare hands, intending to break her neck and stamp her into a red smear without a thought for the Mayor, who was silently standing well clear. She didn't get the chance as Sinceera stood up so fast that the chair shattered under the sheer kinetic energy expended, just before a backhanded strike nearly took Faith's head off, spinning her from her feet. Faith rolled and came back upright, a knife being drawn from inside her jacket with a shining six-inch silver blade that could have cut silk in mid-air. Sinceera lunged forwards and head-butted the smaller Slayer, grabbing her knife-hand and slamming it against the desk with such force that it was a minor miracle she didn't break the Slayers wrist. The knife span from a suddenly limp hand, but Sinceera caught it before it had spun a foot free. She caught Faith with her free hand and slammed the Slayers head into the desk, hard, just before the knife sliced into the desk so close to the Slayers left cheek that the whipping air alone almost opened the skin. The hand on Faith's neck stopped her from moving, and the knife drew her attention like a bullet in the back from the Mayor would have done.

All in all, the fight had taken something less than five seconds, and had passed so quickly in time that the Mayor had only seen a blur of limbs and movement before Faith was abruptly pinned to the desk, nearly pinned through the head with her own knife. He'd seen Faith fight when she wanted someone dead, as she had here, so to say that he was impressed was an understatement. Faith's expression was indescribable, her mind a scared muddle. Vampires didn't fight like that, and they certainly didn't move like that, they fought like brawlers with their bare hands or used weapons like swords in rare cases. She'd had enough training as a Slayer to know that the red-head had used unarmed combat techniques, and she knew enough about Vampires to be sure that none moved like quicksilver compared to a Slayer, which the red-head had just done effortlessly. She was scared, that was the only word that described her feelings, and that was a very rare sensation for her to feel. Even worse, though, was the noticeably warm breath-warm with _life_-of the redhead as she leaned over to whisper in Faith's ear. "You really should be glad I have a soft spot for used and abused women, Faith..."

_**Day ninety-eight of the Hundred Days**_

Sunnydale General Hospital was a cold, sterile place, whitewashed walls and ceiling, clean-swept floors and antiseptic smells. Doctors and Nurses wore white coats, sterile green gowns and clean shoes. They made determined attempts at good manners like their lives depended on them doing so, which, more often than not in a place like Sunnydale, they did. People came here to get better, to recover from whatever was wrong with them, injury or illness, normally. The problem was, sometimes they didn't leave-ever. That was why it was so quiet, as well, only the constant beeping of machines monitoring the vital functions of people's lives really breaking the otherwise absolute silence always about the place. People rarely even dared to walk quickly except when they had no choice around this place, and when they did life itself was often at stake.

The young man sitting silently by the bedside of one of the people who was unlikely to ever leave this cold, pale place knew all of this from too many times coming to it himself. More often than not not even for something that was wrong with he himself, it being instead because of his friends. On the other hand, with friends like his, one would have thought that he'd have gotten used to such things by now, but he hadn't. Personally, he hoped he never did, there were some things he just never wanted to become used to, not now, not ever.

Six feet tall, eighteen heading towards nineteen years old, broad-shouldered and muscular, he had smooth dark auburn hair and oak-brown eyes. He wore a gray sweater, light-blue shirt, dark-blue trousers and black shoes, all of which somehow failed to make him look any older than he really was, sometimes to his annoyance. His face was smooth and long, making him good-looking in a way that spoke of simple musculature rather than the elegance and grace of film stars who worked out and had experts groom them every day to maintain such perfection. He was far from being the best thing to come out of Sunnydale High School in a good long time, and he knew it, but that hadn't mattered to the young woman lying comatose on the bed.

Her name was Faith Spencer, and she was a Slayer, a woman chosen by destiny to fight the good fight and hold the line against the forces of evil until death finally came to claim its own. She'd been a friend, or something similar, once, to him. What she'd been to Buffy, the original Slayer and supposed Chosen One for her generation, was between the two of them. But now? Now she was an evil, corrupted force of nature gone bad, a woman who had betrayed her friends and allies alike and regardless. She'd nearly killed some of them and fought at the side of a living nightmare who intended to bring Hell to Earth, not to mention turn himself into a Demon in the process. What had gone wrong was a question with a very long explanation that just might be an answer somewhere along the line, but-well, he didn't know for sure in all honesty, but he didn't lay the blame on Faith herself. No, to him, the trail led straight back to one thing: the Watchers Council. Or, rather, their pet Watcher in Sunnydale after they'd fired the original, Rupert Giles, for becoming "too involved" in his job, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.

Faith accidentally kills someone who isn't a Demon? Buffy calls in Angel, who talks to her, says he was getting through to her. Wesley hears about it, next the Watcher heavy mob arrive, beat up Angel and effectively kidnap Faith, intending to take her back to England and "fix" her. She escapes, things go wrong from then on, and Wesley still didn't believe that he'd done anything wrong...

Faith's slow but steady breathing attracted his attention again, or rather the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her slightly parted full red lips. She was hooked up to a monitor with various tubes which was monitoring her vital signs while she lay on the white-sheeted bed comatose, courtesy of a knife-wound inflicted by Buffy in a fight, straight to the chest, and deep. Her face was pale and marked with the nasty bruises of their fight, only making the contrast with her chestnut hair all the more obvious. The pale white hospital gown which covered her was thin but effective, it was only supposed to be temporary after all, but it didn't cover her forearms and hands, more heavy bruising being obvious.

Buffy hadn't looked too good when she'd come back to the Library herself, split lip, bruises and a limp, but Slayers healed fast and, mere hours later, most of her injuries were quickly fading. Faiths would have been, but she'd almost died, loosing a lot of blood in the process and suffering internal injuries. Evidently even a Slayers constitution, a fact she'd obviously now discovered, had its limits.

His name was Alexander Harris, but everyone called him Xander, and, once, he'd spent the night with the dark Slayer currently lying comatose on the bed. Admittedly, it had barely been anything more than rape if one was being blunt, she'd just wanted a warm body of the male sex to ease herself on after a fight. He'd liked her, he really had, but it had been the shock of his life when she'd dragged him into her bed and, unlike with some, that sort of thing stuck with him.

That was why he was where he was now, despite everything. The Mayors coming Ascension, Angel's near-death illness and the desperate running battle between the Mayor with his Vampire and Demon troops and Buffy with the Scooby Gang. She didn't deserve it, not after all she'd done, not really, but, if she died, as seemed likely, he wanted to be there, no matter what. It was the least he could do, and no one would have been able to convince him otherwise.

However, the very silence of the Hospital abruptly worked against its purpose as he heard, close and coming quickly closer, a pair of heavy boots. Boots which thumped into the floor like hammers against steel, like drums in the deepest jungle abruptly starting up. Any number of possibilities abruptly shot across his mind as to what could be coming, or who. An incapacitated, comatose Slayer was a source of rich, powerful blood just waiting to be drawn if one cared to, no struggle at all to gain, and any number of Vampires would do literally anything for even a taste of such power. More to the point, he was utterly sure it was no member of the Gang. Not one of them, bar Faith when she'd been sort-of one, had ever worn anything like whoever was coming had to be. His face hardened, and he gripped the stake he was abruptly glad he'd thought to bring in his trouser pocket. Whatever it was wasn't going to just get a free nibble, whatever it believed...

When the woman who turned the corner appeared, however, his jaw almost literally hit the floor and he stared in such a fashion that he risked his eyes. His first thought was that the Amazon in front of him was a hallucination drawn from the deepest recesses of his imagination given form, probably because he was seated next to a half-naked Faith while being exhausted and stressed-out from what was going on, and due to the fact that he hadn't gotten laid since Faith herself. His subconscious mind quickly gave his consciousness a kick, however, and he realized that, even though words failed him to describe her looks added to the fact that he associated leather with pleasure after Faith, there was no way he could have come up with anyone like _her_ under _any_ circumstances...

Red-gold hair fell about her shoulders and back in a loose tail, held at the base of her skull by a pitch-black hair band. An armless T-shirt fell to an inch above her leather leggings, leggings held in place by a tight belt with a silver deaths-head buckle added to knee-length boots, all of which were the same pitch-black darkness in color. An overcoat of the same color again hung about her like a shroud, spreading like a ravens wings both left and right of her. Half-moon glasses of an electric blue-black color covered her eyes, but her mesmerizing jade-green gaze became startlingly obvious as a perfect hand reached up slowly and removed the glasses, placing them in a pocket in the overcoat. That done, her right hand came down, and she slowly, gently ran her fingers through Faith's hair as though it was the most delicate, fragile thing imaginable in the world.

"You. Leave. This is not for your eyes" she said, her words snapping him out of the near-trance state that he'd been in since merely seeing her. He shook his head, trying to shake off a stark, burning image of jade green eyes that seemed seared into his mind as though a poker had been taken to his own eyes. He failed, utterly, but, although he would never know it, the very fact that he failed saved his life. If she had considered him even possibly a threat, the woman known as Sinceera's next action would have involved throwing the helpless Xander Harris out of the third-floor window of the hospital room they were in.

He stood up regardless, hand firmly on concealed stake, looking Sinceera in the eyes, even though he felt an immediate headache develop just from meeting such eyes. It was at that point that he realized she was meeting him eye-to-eye, meaning that she was six feet tall... "No way. Not now, not ever. Faith was my friend, once, and, while the others need me soon, while I'm alive your not getting her, so don't even try it" he returned, somehow, despite a feeling in his twisting stomach that the wisest thing he could possibly do would be to turn and run.

He'd known before the feeling that he was out of his depth with someone or something, when you fought alongside a Slayer regularly you almost got used to the feeling, but this was... _different_. It wasn't so much the fact that he was well aware he was completely out of his depth here, it was the fact that Sinceera was looking at him in such a fashion that he got the distinct impression he was beneath her contempt, and, somehow, he knew that she was right...

"Xander Harris, because, contrary to popular opinion, I do not engage in torture simply because I can, I will say this one more time. Refuse again, and I will force you to walk through this Hospital completely naked while flaunting yourself at every man you see. **_LEAVE_**. If it makes it any easier, I have no intention of hurting her. You can believe that much, I presume" said Sinceera, her voice glacial, her eyes smoldering.

She was pissed off to put it mildly, and she was about a hairs breadth away from taking it out on him. Xander grasped that very quickly, just as quickly as he grasped the fact that the nails on both her hands, originally normal, human-looking nails, were now decidedly longer and sharper than they had been. In fact, they were changing color to resemble the dull white hue of clean bone even as they became longer and considerably sharper. They were becoming thicker as well, beginning to resemble talons...

He swallowed, looked at Sinceera, but still somehow managed to meet her eyes. This time, though, he didn't even attempt to hold her gaze, merely nodding and holding out two empty hands in surrender. "Alright, you win, I'm going. Just...don't..." he began to say, but then his nerve finally failed him and he turned, almost ready to run for his life-her voice stopped him. "Alexander Harris" she said, his full name, not a name he'd ever heard from anyone apart from his parents, and when _they_ said it, they... He stopped, dead, instantly, almost dreading what would come next. "Thank you" Sinceera said, softly, then she turned away from him to Faith.

She didn't say another word, she didn't need to, Xander was out of the Hospital in five minutes flat without looking back once. If he had looked back even once before he'd left the Ward, however, he would have glimpsed the tall redhead brushing her lips across Faith's in a tender kiss...

_**The Hundredth Day**_

Dressed in his usual garb, black jacket and trousers, light blue shirt and black shoes, Angel, formerly Angelus, one of the Terrors of Europe over a hundred years ago now, looked little different from any of the others who fought the Mayor and his Vampires during Graduation Day. A little older, in his mid-twenties, sure, but he was known to most of them in any case, a slightly odd, lonely individual who hung around with Buffy Summers and her band of misfits. Just like them, he always seemed to show up whenever trouble reared its ugly head, and he was always still there when the trouble had been dealt with and had gone away, just like them. It was rumored that he was never seen during the day, but most would have asked so what? He was obviously a grown man capable of taking care of himself, what did it matter if he chose to live odd hours?

Certainly, when the Mayor of Sunnydale turned into a Demon sixty foot long physically a cross between a snake and a Dragon during his graduation speech, when a sudden Eclipse caused the Sun to disappear and a horde of Vampires attacked the Students, no one was complaining when he suddenly appeared. Axes, swords, pikes, spears, flamethrowers and every other kind of weapon anyone had been able to lay hand on were suddenly being used to fight off the now-Demon Mayor, who was intent on eating as many Students as possible. Stakes and anything else to hand were used to fight the Vampires, who suddenly found themselves under attack from two directions as a second group, led by Xander Harris and Angel, charged them in the rear.

A battle being fought suggests some degree of organization to a conflict, there was none at this. What occurred was pure, uncontrolled chaos as Students fought like the Possessed to keep the Mayor from eating them and the Vampires from killing them, while the Vampires fought like the Demons they were just to get out alive after the trap was sprung.

It was all over quite quickly, in truth, only half an hour having passed of desperate fighting on both sides before the Mayor, believing that Buffy had discovered a way to destroy him, followed her into Sunnydale High. In fact, she had, the way being, unknown to him, to blow up the school with a large amount of explosives while he was in it, blowing him up while bringing the school down on his head. As a Demon, he had considered himself pretty much invulnerable, because he was. Unfortunately, as he quickly discovered when the explosives went off underneath him just before a hundred tons of masonry buried what was left of him, there was a very large difference between being invulnerable and _almost_ being invulnerable. Namely, that those who were not invulnerable could, in fact, die.

The already beleaguered Vampires didn't need any better reason to run. Angel spinning through their number with stakes in hand killing with appalling ease like the cold kiss of death added to frenzied Students assaulting them with everything from their bare hands to flamethrowers already being more than bad enough. If the Mayor had survived he would have hunted down and killed everyone who'd even attempted to run, no question. With him dead, the speed with which they took to their heels was almost impressive, even though they had good reason to be scared, Students following them screaming fury in all directions. Most of the Students scattered to finish off any Vampires left over after the Mayors death, but not Buffy, and not Angel. The Slayers job was done, for now, and Angel's time in this place was past.

Police and Fire Engines turned up shortly after the fight really ended, hosing down fires started and trying to restore some kind of order without much success as people ran around cheering or just stood still and cold, exhausted, hurt or both. Angel didn't need to stay any longer, so he waited a little while, made sure that he saw and was seen by Buffy one last time, waved his goodbye, turned and was gone.

He'd bought a car not long ago, a sleek black-painted job that came with a fold-over roof of the same color, vital in his way of life. Especially if he wanted to pass for normal, since he could at least ride around with the roof down during the night. He'd parked it a little way away from where it had been planned the fight would take place, reasoning that if the Mayor somehow survived either he and Buffy might need a quick getaway or it wouldn't matter at all. Thankfully, all he'd ended up needing it for was a ride.

She didn't have a scent, a strange fact unique to her in his experience, nor did someone sense her unless she wanted them to, so the first thing he knew was when she cupped and lit a cigarette literally right behind him. He span around, ready to fight-only to see her smile broadly as she blew smoke into the air. "Ding, dong, the bastards dead, what a bloody shame...been a while, Angelus" she said, softly, not moving at all except to shift the cigarette slightly to allow her to talk. She was dressed in full-body black leathers, including an overcoat, and, he had to admit, her clothes outlined her figure nicely. Very nicely, in fact, but there was no way he was going back to that, not for all of the gold the Aztecs had ever owned and a reinvention of the Karma Sutra just for the two of them. "Its Angel. If you want to talk, get in, I'm not waiting" he replied, getting into the car and starting the engine. Sinceera looked at him, shrugged, then easily leapt over the door and into the passenger seat.

"Do you really think that Angelus is gone just because something of the old man is back? If that were true we'd all get one Wish and you would currently be naked, spread-eagled and chained down inside a Pentagram dosed with Aphrodisiacs to the point that you wouldn't be able to get it down for the next hundred years. Oh yes, you'd also be covered in cream mixed with the blood of a God and Drusilla would be there to join in the fun. Apart from that, are you willing to actually talk now?" replied Sinceera as Angel got the car in gear and started driving.

"As I recall we tried something similar and Spike walked in on it back one hundred three years or so in Czechoslovakia. Do you have a point to make or are you just here for a trip down memory lane, Sin?" said Angel, refusing to rise to the bait with an effort of will.

"Both, neither, whatever comes to mind. Actually, I was half wondering just what you intend to do next. Drusilla and Spike have split up down in Rio de Janeiro, I hear tell, something to do with a Chaos Demon and a hot poker. Spike did something he shouldn't have involving Dru and it, apparently, then he sicked about fifty armed humans on her after she dumped him for it who were armed and knew what she was. She killed them all, but last I heard she'd ended up back in London trying to get away from it all. Spike is supposedly in New York drinking himself comatose over it, and you killed Darla back in 96'. That only really leaves me and you of the old gang, so I was wondering..." Sinceera said, deliberately allowing her voice to trail away as she raised an eyebrow at him. Jade green eyes caught his in the rear-view mirror, and he had a very hard time looking away for a long moment. The memory of a pair of mist-gray eyes belonging to a certain blond Slayer helped, though, and he succeeded where Xander had failed.

Glancing at her, he smirked, raising an eyebrow at the sight of her choice of cigarette. "I know you only have one every couple of years, but I thought that you only smoked Cuban cigars. That's Spikes brand, are you taking up bad habits or trying to leave behind old ones?" he asked, trying not to grin and failing.

"I started smoking when Drake brought the damned weed back from the East Indies in the fifteen hundreds, Angelus, I've tried every brand there ever was, don't try to pretend you don't know that. To answer your question, though, I ate the Smuggler when he annoyed me in 95' and haven't gotten around to getting a fresh supplier since. What about you? Still drinking baby blood as an appetizer?" Sinceera replied, nearly causing Angel to swerve right off of the road as he shot her a murderous look.

"You know damned well I haven't done that since I was cursed back in 1896, Sin, and I told you not to bring it up again. I don't care that I tried to make up for lost time with reversion to type post Slayer-sex in 1998, either, I didn't think through that that might happen and it didn't last even a year in any case. I made a mistake, it won't happen again" replied Angel, wishing that he could hit the redhead but not daring.

"I'm sure, just like I'm sure that Spike had a sex-change operation in 1950 because Drusilla wanted to try something different. Angelus, this is _me_ you're talking to, I know you better than you know yourself and you know it. Shall we be honest? I think that you truly believe your on some kind of redemption quest to make up for a hundred-forty years of spreading Hell on Earth and enjoying doing it. You think that you can redeem yourself and permanently regain both your Soul and your Humanity, ending up with you developing a heartbeat and dying, of old age, at peace. I think that you're an idiot. You want everything that I've just spoken of, yes, but have you considered the implications of that? You're almost two hundred fifty years old, your Undead, a dead human body possessed and animated by a Demon Spirit itself possessed of a Human Soul. You still have the memories of your human life, yes, and you have the feelings, now, too, thanks to your Soul. Hurts, doesn't it? Believe me, I know, there's little more painful than someone trying to Curse you with a Soul when you already have one, mainly because it means the spell misfires, but that's another story.

It would take either a God or a higher power to make your Soul permanent, let alone restore your physical humanity and banish the Demon, and that really means The Powers That Be. Trust me when I say been there, done that, and they don't work to a favor for a favor. They will cause you trouble on a dimensional scale, turn you inside out while holding you upside down and tie you up in knots just to prove that they can before doing anything at all, and you'll even help them, because they can. These people can turn back time and erase your entire existence if they feel like it, Angelus, and do not be naive enough to think that just because you work for them they'll treat you any differently" said Sinceera, breathing in a couple of deep breaths of smoke before blowing it out into the air in a circle. She looked at Angel, who looked confused, sighed and shook her head. "Give it time, Angelus, you'll see what I mean..." she added, so quietly that he almost didn't hear her.

"Its Angel... start again, who are The Powers That Be? I've never heard of them before, and why would I be working for them?" asked Angel, trying and failing to grasp just what Sinceera was trying to tell him.

"My mother explained the how's and whys back in the sixth century, Angelus. I've rarely tried to explain what she said to me to anyone since, and she used words I barely understand even now, so don't be surprised if even the simple explanation doesn't make sense. Just think of them as the one's who run everything, starting from before Eternity and ending after it, and as those who started off the Slayer line, and you'll have some conception of them. As to why you, well, if the Fates allowed coincidences I'd believe in them. A Souled Vampire who's fallen in love with a Slayer who's fallen in love with him, no less? What does it take to get through to you, Angelus, writing on the wall in the blood of a God? I, for one, have rarely seen such a blatant set-up" said Sinceera, rolling her eyes.

Angel's eyes grew dark momentarily, and a Demons visage briefly darkened his face. He didn't like what he was hearing, what he understood of it that was, and, worst off all, it made sense. "ANGEL... Assuming I believe you, which I'm not saying I do, what's the larger plan here, then? Two people, me and Buffy, working side-by-side against evil seems stronger than the two of us apart, so how does that work? Besides which, even if this somehow true, why are YOU telling me? As I recall, the only reason I'm alive is you can't be bothered to kill me, so unless your trying to put ideas in my head to break me down before I even get started..." replied Angel, his lips parting as he snarled.

"My opinion of your intelligence was poor enough already, snarl at me again and I'll rip your Soul out by the roots before condemning it to Hell for Eternity. As to the former, have you never considered that there is a whole "big, bad world" out there, Angelus? The Powers That Be don't have enough in the way of cannon fodder to leave two Chosen Ones in one place to fight the good fight, even on a Hellmouth. Buffy and her friends, helped or hindered by the Watchers Council, can hold the line there short of catastrophe, especially with two Slayers to call upon. As to the latter, why in Hell not?

The truth is a better weapon than any lie, because when your proved right it cuts deeper than any falsehood ever will, but, then, you know that, no? Besides which, your too cute to just let go, you'll be back, one way or another. Before you ask, Blood will Out, even in a Soul as corrupted as Faith's. She'll die fighting for that she works for, or she'll simply disappear, whichever, it'll work for them. She'll live, though, while I'm alive" said Sinceera, throwing her cigarette onto the road with a casual toss without bothering to put it out. Glancing up, she smiled, and pulled on the handbrake before Angel could stop her. Fortunately he wasn't going too fast, but even so the car skidded halfway around before it ground to a halt.

"You can let me out here. Thanks for the ride, Angelus" said Sinceera, seemingly flowing out of the car over the door to the ground without even attempting to open the door or step over it. There was a silver-black Harley Davidson standing by the side of the road, and Angel immediately realized that it was hers by the way she looked at it even as he untangled himself from his position halfway across both front seats under the steering wheel. "Bitch. Just tell me one thing, why me? If you're so wise, what makes me so special?!" he shouted, even as she started the motorbike with a roar of power and gust of exhaust.

She paused a moment, then looked back at him, jade eyes locking with his brown ones one last time. "Angelus, Bed-Boy, you really haven't guessed yet? A little thing called Destiny, added to the anger that made you a particularly vicious little bastard as a Vamp, added to a century of pain as a Soul burns you alive. The words "forged" and "tempered" come to mind, Angel, you know, like a**_ WEAPON!_**" she shouted back, her voice rising to a bellow as she gunned the engine, then drove of in a flicker of black, the stench of burning rubber instantly obvious as smoke shot up from both tires.

He barely noticed that she'd called him Angel even as she drove off, overcoat flaring up behind her like a bats wings straight out of Hell. He didn't notice much of anything for a long time after that, nor did he do anything at all...

_**The end?**_


End file.
